THE PORCELAIN ORACLE

She never wanted this. She just wanted to be herself. But one morning, looking in the mirror, she saw another eye had appeared on her forehead. And then another on her cheek. They weren't painted on. They simply were. And they were watching.

Each eye is a separate channel into infinity. One sees the past, like an unhealing wound. Another sees all possible futures, diverging like cracks in ice. A third sees the lies in people's words, staining their auras a sickly yellow. A fourth sees the love that could have been, but never was. A fifth sees the geometry of the void between the stars.

Her own face became a stranger to her. A porcelain mask upon which some unknown artist continued to create new organs of sight. She tries to cover them with her hands, but how can you cover something that gazes not outward, but inward?

People see madness in her. They don't understand that they are looking not at a woman, but at a living library of realities, its pages all turning at once. This isn't the disintegration of a personality. It is its expansion to a limit the body cannot contain.